” The lady in black satin appeared undecided. The night was clear and moonlit, dazzling with even light blue shadows that shone into manicured lawns and pristine gardens. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. "Close the doors below! Loose the dogs! Curses! they don't hear me! I'll ring the alarm-bell. The thought caused him an odd kind of pang—of pity, naturally. ” “I’ve told you,” he said. It was cheating, pitiful cheating.
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